A/N: Sorry for the delay in update! I've been so busy working and preparing for my new school semester-it's been absolutely crazy. Here's one of my longer updates. Thank you for staying with me and staying with this story. Your support means a lot to me. Please R&R! Enjoy :)
Chapter XIV: Taking Blind Steps
Logan wasn't exactly looking forward to attending the funeral, but had only stayed because they still had one pressing matter left to attend to—curing the arl. The mage tried his best to avoid any reminders of the previous day's events as he waited for preparations to be made. Since that afternoon almost every servant—every servant left, that is—were assigned with different menial tasks and saw to the preparations of the sad affair alongside Bann Teagan and Arlessa Isolde. Even the village of Redcliffe had pitched in, with Murdoch and several other militiamen working with the craftsmen to quickly, but carefully, build a coffin fitting for the arl's dead son.
The Bann had insisted that Logan and his companions—including the twins, for they were their newest addition—rest for the day and recuperate while everything was underway, to which Logan agreed without complaints. Teagan had let them use several extra rooms—which were startlingly well furnished, but what else was one to expect from the arl of Redcliffe?—on the third floor of the castle and left them for the day, and reminded them that he would only return when preparations were finally completed. Logan was only more than happy to oblige. He had wanted time alone to himself and his thoughts, especially because of what lay ahead before them.
According to Teagan, Arl Eamon's illness was practically incurable—no physician that had ever visited the castle of Redcliffe emerged victorious in finding a suitable cure for Eamon—but there was one last glimmer of hope left for them yet: the Urn of Sacred Ashes.
"Andraste's ashes," Teagan explained to them, "are believed to be the last chance that Eamon has at survival."
Logan had almost scoffed at Teagan then. Despite being a believer in the Maker, he hadn't really bothered himself with dabbling into their superstitious beliefs or myths. It was ironic simply because he was a mage, but he could not exactly bring himself to put all of his faith and hope in an urn of ashes of a dead person—did it even belong to Andraste?—which may have very well been based on pure rumors and nothing more. The only person who responded positively to this lead was Leliana.
"Her ashes still remain in Ferelden?" the red-haired lay sister asked, bouncing up and down on her seat with a childlike excitement, "This I would like to see!"
Alistair narrowed his eyes and made a loud noise of disapproval. "How are you even sure those ashes belong to Andraste?" he asked sceptically, voicing out Logan's thoughts unknowingly, "I mean, if anything, Ferelden is pretty much riddled with myths and legends. Some have already been proven to be lies—what makes this any less a rumor than anything else?"
"Thedas is also filled with these kinds of tales and legends," Bethany added for good measure, earning a smile of gratitude from Alistair. She turned scarlet almost immediately upon making eye contact with the ex-templar and hastily faced Teagan once more. "We can't actually be sure."
"It's not that we don't want to heal the arl," Logan interjected hastily, when he saw the look of discomfort growing on Teagan's face, "It's just… we don't want to go on a wild goose chase and end up retrieving the ashes of someone who isn't Andraste. We want to save the arl as much as you want to, Bann Teagan."
Teagan held up his hand and, with a ghost of a smile on his face, chuckled, in spite of the situation. "I know you all have doubts," he said, "I have had a fair share of those as well, before you arrived and got us out of this mess. But we've received word from Denerim that a man named Genitivi—more commonly addressed as Brother Genitivi—has proof that those ashes do indeed belong to the bride of the Maker… and the exact location of this urn."
Logan glanced at Alistair, Bethany and Leliana briefly, just to examine their reactions, and quickly turned back to Bann Teagan, who now had a smile of pure confidence on his face. It was almost a contagious kind of confidence, and it reassured a part of Logan. He scratched his head and sighed, deciding to give in and take a chance on these ashes. "This means we'll have to go to Denerim next."
Now, he sat in front of a map of Thedas with a quill in his hand, pensive. Carefully, he traced a path from their current location and extended the line towards the northeast, and finally landed the last drop of ink on top of Denerim. He sighed heavily as a million thoughts rushed through his mind while his eyes remained transfixed on the capital city of Ferelden. Loghain was, without a doubt, going to be present in Denerim—he would probably rather stay to control his daughter and effectively strengthen his grip on Ferelden than hunt the Grey Wardens who he knew were seeking to kill him—and it made Logan wonder if they were going to face any difficulty upon entering the city.
His cerulean blue eyes roamed the map, glancing at every remaining location that Alistair had marked out. These were the places that they had yet to visit. After a moment's deliberation, Logan reluctantly plotted another journey from Denerim to Lake Calenhad, where the Circle Tower stood tall. Logan had had no intention of returning to that dreaded tower, but now duty had willed it to be so. Even if he did not want to see Greagoir or any other templar again for the rest of his life, it seemed that he did not have much of a choice left.
He was about to plot another course when a knock on the door startled him. The quill fell out of Logan's hand as he turned to the doorway. Immediately, the sight of the beautiful witch of the Wilds left him breathless.
"Morrigan," he said, trying to sound calm. He thought everyone else was in their rooms and hadn't thought twice about closing the door for privacy—but why did he even think of doing so? If he had, he wouldn't have had the chance of seeing her again—what more be in the same room as her with no one else around? The witch's presence was certainly not unwelcome to him, even if it was at such a late hour.
"'Tis only I," Morrigan said, striding towards him confidently, "You look surprised. Have you forgotten that I am one of you?"
Logan shook his head—denying Morrigan's claim and, at the same time, trying to regain his focus and stop his mind from spinning. "No," he said, "I just expected everyone else to be asleep or resting—as I was."
"You were not," she corrected him with a harshness that did not scare him. It sounded more protective, more disapproving rather than spiteful this time. As every single time he laid his eyes on her, Logan was drawn towards her like a magnet once more. Morrigan crossed over to the table behind him, her golden eyes flickering over to the map and regarded it thoughtfully, before directing her attention back to the Warden. "You were plotting our next moves, I see?"
Logan nodded, attempting to stay composed and pretending that her presence didn't affect him so much so that he felt like a little boy in the presence of a very beautiful woman. He noticed that Morrigan still kept her unreadable eyes trained on him, and could almost feel her stare burning into him. He felt the heat rush to his face and prayed he wasn't blushing. "I was hoping we could leave right after Connor's funeral," he said lamely.
"In the morning, then?" she said, approaching him again. Behind her, the door swung shut and he heard the locks clicking into place. He couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at her, to which she responded with a knowing smirk.
"What's going on?" Logan asked, tilting his head curiously to one side, "You should be resting, you know. You were injured—"
"—no longer," she finished for him, waving it off dismissively, "I'm here for a reason."
"To talk?" Logan asked, though he felt like he sounded stupid for asking. He had an inkling—even if it was a small inkling—about what she really wanted from him tonight. A part of him desired it, but another would rather disappear into the ground below. Despite his rising panic, his eyes never left her. "Is something bothering you?"
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "Yes, something is bothering me. 'Tis something that has been infuriating me since the first day I met you!" she replied almost impatiently, taking one step closer so that their faces were now inches away from each other, "We both know what I speak of."
"I'm not quite sure I follow," Logan muttered, feeling his intelligence evaporate, "I… get to the point."
"Gladly," Morrigan said, her voice dropping one or two octaves, and—not knowing what was taking a hold of her at that moment—reached out and took Logan's face in her hands, touched it, caressed it, before pulling him in and planting a kiss on his lips.
Logan was certain that at that moment, he had forgotten his entire name. He had forgotten where he was. Logan James Amell, he reminded himself in a bid to prevent a nervous breakdown from occurring, You are a Grey Warden, sworn to defend the land against the Blight. He shur his eyes tight and continued to chant his own name while inhaling the sweet scenet that reminded him of the forest and melted into the kiss, into her warm lips, unsure of what he was supposed to do next. He had, of course, never done this before. Knowing that Morrigan probably had prior experience left him even more unsettled, and he decided to stay completely still.
After what seemed like a second or two—in reality, it was much longer for Morrigan had no intention of simply giving him a peck on the lips—the witch broke away from the kiss. He opened his eyes, as though afraid that he was hallucinating or dreaming, and realized that she was smiling at him—a little too enthusiastically for it to be considered normal (well, for Morrigan, anyway)—and upon a closer inspection discovered that she was, in fact, attempting to stifle her laughter. He frowned instantly and crossed his arms over his chest and tried his utmost best to look displeased and offended.
"What's so funny?" he demanded indignantly.
Morrigan's smile did not fade from her lips. "You truly are still a boy," she teased, despite being surprised at how much she had liked kissing him. "Have you never… been with women?"
Logan ducked his head. "No," he replied simply, "You… would be the first."
Morrigan had always heard—while sneaking around villages in the form of an animal—young girls giggling with each other as they discussed "that cute farm boy" or "the baker's son", mentioning peculiar things that had resulted in perhaps the slightest interaction with the objects of their affection which included a "heart skipping a beat" or "stopping completely for a second or two". She had never understood it then, and simply dismissed it as a symptom of insanity, but as she stood in front of this handsome, however inexperienced, man, she felt like she could have been one of those girls, too. Perhaps I have gone mad like them.
"Truly? Well, then, this will be interesting indeed," she said, her voice like silk. She reached out with one slender hand and cupped the mage's chin and lifted his face so that he was now looking directly at her. The intensity of his gaze nearly knocked her off balance as he looked—albeit too seriously, so much that she swore she almost found it adorable—as though he was searching for something other than her eyes.
She had seen this look too many times. The men she had been with had always looked like this, even at first sight, because they desperately wanted to be the first to find her soul. She almost smiled bitterly at this recollection, because all of them had, in the end, found that there was nothing in her eyes and her heart. They had fallen in love with something that cannot love them back—it was almost lamentable.
What was different now was that she, too, was searching something in those cerulean blue eyes.
"What do you…" started Logan, but decided against it and corrected his question, "What do we want?"
Morrigan gently caressed his cheek as she willingly lost herself in his eyes. It was a color she would probably never forget—it was a blue unlike any she had ever seen. It reminded her of sapphires and of the summer sky. It reminded her of the wide sea and vast—they say there are seven—oceans that she had yet to see with her own eyes. It had always been a dream of hers—one that Flemeth had repeatedly cast down without any qualms—and she somehow found herself more than content as she settled with his eyes. Had Flemeth ever felt this way before about any man, any man at all?
Her lips suddenly stretched into a small smile and felt breathless for a split second as her heart fluttered involuntarily. No, she thought to herself with a new certainty, Flemeth would never have known what this feels like.
"We…" Morrigan said softly, tracing his lips with one finger, "want each other. Tell me, Logan… is that true?"
Logan seemed to hesitate at her question and looked away for a moment, nervous and extremely short of breath. Maker, can this be any harder? It was taking him everything to stop himself from taking her in his arms and kissing her again. He was aware that he had feelings for her, but had always regarded it as a passing infatuation for he had never looked at a woman as beautiful as her before, and up until now had not even been sure if she regarded him as a friend—a friend enough to have room for feelings to grow. And now, here she was, standing in front of him and practically offering a relationship to him and he couldn't even say a word. Maybe she's right, he thought, maybe I am still a boy.
"You don't want this," Morrigan said quietly. Logan swore there was a trembling in her voice. The hurt was almost unmistakable, and he was half-heartedly wondering whether this was just a cruel nightmare. He could have, of course, fallen asleep at the table beside them, drooling all over his map and ruining the writings…
"I want this," he said finally, snapping out of his thoughts, "I want you. I want—I want us."
Morrigan heaved a sigh—of relief? Or happiness?—and, with her heart still beating rapidly with these seemingly innocuous feelings, took Logan's hand and pulled him towards the bed. He followed her willingly and held onto her, his small, shy smile growing into a hopeful beam. For the both of them, it was a moment—perhaps the only one they would have after tonight—they had to forget about the Blight, about Arl Eamon's sickness and just be with each other.
For the both of them, it was worth it.
Logan slowly drew her close for a warm embrace and leaned in to kiss her again. "Keep your eyes on me," Morrigan whispered in his ear, her warm breath sending shivers up his spine, as she undressed, "'Tis only us tonight. I want you to always remember things like this—remember you and I this way—no matter what."
He looked at her and nodded wordlessly. "Promise me," she whispered again.
Logan swallowed hard. "I promise you," he said, though her words sounded puzzling to him. He was already too intoxicated by everything about her—her eyes, her voice, her smile, the feel of her skin—to care too much about it, however, and just smiled. He looked into her eyes again and lost himself once more in the most beautiful creature, he was sure, he had ever laid his eyes on.
When he awoke, Logan realized that he wasn't dreaming.
Morrigan had been the first to wake up. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, he noticed that she was already looking at him. And the look on her face had been unlike any other expression she had dared to show to anyone. Her eyes had a newfound softness to them—something he was completely captured by—and there was a constant hint of a smile on her lips. It was refreshing and exhilarating—Logan knew that she probably didn't realize how much more beautiful she looked when she showed others her happiness. And then it hit him.
"You're happy," he whispered, not knowing whether it was a question or a statement. To his surprise, Morrigan smiled. Her golden eyes twinkled in the sunlight and he felt slightly dizzy as he had last night.
Last night had been the most incredible experience of his life.
"Yes," she said simply, reaching out to touch his face again. Her fingers traced the contours of his face and her eyes were filled with an amusing kind of concentration. It was almost as though she was trying to memorize his face—the color of his hair in the sunlight, the color of his eyes and how soft his skin felt under her touch—and trailed her fingers slowly toward his lips.
How his lips felt on hers. How his lips tasted to her. It was almost breathtaking—she had never regarded any man as beautiful, but Logan simply was a spectacular being. It helped that he thought the same of her. To her, it was startlingly different and something completely new, and while she knew feeling this way would ultimately bring regretful consequences, she didn't seem to care much. She pushed everything away to the back of her mind and drowned herself again in those pools of blue.
Logan loved watching her. Looking at her now and the way she watched him, too, Logan was sure that she loved doing the same to him.
"We should… get up and see if they're ready," Logan said, even though the last thing he wanted was to leave the bed and leave her side.
Morrigan smirked. "If they are ready, they will call us," Morrigan said, "Forget about the blasted Blight and everything else and come back here."
Logan was already moving closer to her and wrapped his arm around her naked form when a knock startled them both. "Logan?" came Teagan's voice from behind the door, "Are you awake yet?"
"Say no," Morrigan urged softly.
"That would defeat the purpose of supposedly being asleep, Morrigan," Logan whispered back, laughing as he kissed her on the forehead. Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed and slipped on his smallclothes and walked towards the door, reaching out for the knob. He opened it only slightly, so that Teagan only saw Logan. "I am now," he said with a smile.
"I trust you had a good sleep?" Teagan said, making to push the door open so he could enter, but Logan didn't budge. At first, the Bann was alarmed, but then suddenly seemed to understand something and smiled knowingly at the young mage. "I see that you did, after all."
"Yes," Logan admitted sheepishly, scratching his head, "So—what time is the funeral?"
"In about an hour," Teagan said, nodding. There was no longer any trace of a grimace or sadness in his eyes. It seemed that moving on was necessary, especially in these times of trouble. "Is that enough time for you to… prepare?"
"Of course," Logan replied, ignoring the sinking feeling that reminded him that one hour was not enough time for him to roll around in bed with the beautiful witch behind him and pack up afterwards. He would have to do what was more important and, while every fibre of his being was screaming out the fact that Morrigan was the most important thing to him right now, convinced himself that the Arl's health was the top priority. "I'll see you later then, Bann Teagan?"
The Bann nodded and, after shooting Logan one more smirk, turned to leave. Logan closed the door and turned around with an amused grin on his face. Morrigan was visibly disgruntled that he had chosen to leave the bed, but at least his spot was still warm when he returned.
"We have to go in an hour," he told her.
"Blast it," Morrigan cursed, allowing herself to be taken into Logan's arms again, "I had hoped for a longer morning."
"You don't look like the kind to sleep in, really," Logan teased, earning a glare from the witch. "But if it makes you feel better, I'd want more time alone with you, too."
The witch smirked. "You are very cute when you're clingy."
"You're just as bad as I am," Logan stated proudly, beaming at Morrigan. She snorted and merely relaxed in his arms, choosing to hide the fact that she, too, mirrored his sentiments. Everything to her was as new as it was to him, but she didn't want him to know that. She knew she had to continue to be one step ahead of him, especially since—
"What are you thinking of?" he said, bringing her out of her thoughts. Once again, he was looking at her with those curious blue eyes. She suddenly found it difficult to breathe again.
"'Tis an unimportant thought," she said, brushing it off, "But if you must know, then know that I am wondering about life without the Blight. I can barely remember my own life before this happened. Before you walked into the Wilds."
"I wasn't the only one," Logan grinned, "but I understand if all you say was me."
"Fool boy," Morrigan said, pretending to be annoyed at his coy behaviour, but the smile on her face betrayed her feelings.
The funeral was held in the front courtyard of the castle grounds, with Connor's body placed in a magnificent white coffin with the Guerrin family crest on it. Isolde and Teagan stood side by side, the younger woman holding onto her brother-in-law for support. She had been determined not to cry from the start, but upon watching Sten the Qunari lower Connor's body into the coffin, gave in to her emotions as any mother would have, for her son was dead. Her sobs seemed to punctuate Mother Hannah's every sentence as Logan watched on in silence with Alistair and Morrigan on either side of him.
The others stood behind the three, looking on as Mothere Hannah began to pray for Connor's soul—that he might find his place at the Maker's side. Logan lowered his head as though out of respect and the rest followed suit, as Teagan stepped forward to light the coffin on fire. He was just about to take the torch from Ser Perth when Isolde let out a loud cry and fell to her knees.
"Please," she cried, tears streaming down her face, "Don't take him away from me!"
As though on instinct, Alistair stepped forward and placed his hand on Isolde's shaking shoulder, offering a silent consolation, but was shoved aside violently. Seething, Isolde proceeded to get back on her feet and slap Alistair right across the face, to which he accepted without protest. Logan decided to step in then as Isolde readied herself for another blow to her son's killer, and quickly placed himself between the angry Orlesian noble and his friend.
"Lady Isolde, please," he said calmly, shaking his head, "This is unnecessary."
"Unnecessary!" spat Isolde, "He killed my son!" Teagan was already pulling her away from them, but she continued shrieking. "I will never forget this, Alistair! You never should have come back! You killed my son! I won't let you off—"
"Enough!" roared Teagan. Suddenly, even Mother Hannah fell silent. Logan had never seen the Bann this agitated before, and certainly made a note not to ever test those waters. It seemed to have a sobering effect on the sobbing Arlessa, and she slowly dropped to her knees again, muttering Connor's name weakly. "Ser Perth, please escort the Arlessa back into the castle and get one of the servants to make her something to eat."
It was then that Logan noticed how pale Isolde had been since the start of the funeral. He took one last, brief look at Isolde, who was already being led back into the castle, and finally turned back to Alistair. His fellow Warden didn't seem to be bothered in the slightest by Isolde's outburst and assault, and Logan gripped his shoulders firmly.
"You alright?" he asked, and once the tension had lifted, Mother Hannah permitted Teagan to set fire to Connor's coffin once more.
Alistair watched wistfully as the flame slowly swallowed the pearly white coffin and his lips stretched into a small, weak smile. "I think I deserved that," he said quietly, so that Logan was the only one who could hear him, "I killed her son. I killed the son of the man who loved me and raised me as his own. I should be the one who's dead—"
"Don't even go there, Alistair," Logan said sternly, "No one's blamed you but Isolde—and yourself. She's just lost her only son—it's only normal that she must grieve. But the fault is not yours—it's hers. She should've sent Connor to the Circle and not hire an apostate to teach him in private. Connor lost control of his own powers and gave in to his desire to save his father's life. You had no choice."
"I could have…" Alistair's voice trailed off as he sighed heavily and shook his head, deciding against arguing. "Alright."
Logan smiled briefly at Alistair, as though offering him words of unspoken encouragement, and turned back to face what was once previously a white coffin that glistened in the late morning sun, now a huge, warm flame that engulfed the entire thing and Connor's body along with it. Logan had never been to many funerals—he remembered only attending his grandfather's, but he did not remember crying. While he had been close to old grandfather Aristide Amell, Logan had not shed a tear.
Aristide had always told him to be the better man—to be strong where others were weak in spirit. Logan had been raised to admire his grandfather instead of his missing father, and was raised with the burning desire to be exactly like Aristide, the man whom people drew their strength from when they found none in themselves. He hadn't even cried when the templars took him away from his mother's comforting embrace—instead, Logan had sworn to return to his mother one day as a free man.
It wasn't until he received a letter informing him of his mother's dead that he shed his first tear in a long time. It was directly after dinner with the other apprentices when Irving had called him into his office. Logan remembered his eleven-year old self crying in front of the First Enchanter. He cried, though in utter shame, and did not stop until an hour later. After he was sent to bed—escorted by an uncharacteristically gentle and quiet Greagoir—Logan dreamt of his grandfather.
His grandfather had told him to be strong, and that he was taking care of Revka for him. His grandfather had made him promise that this would be the first and last time he would cry, and that any other time would have to be braved without shedding a single tear.
The strangest thing Aristide had said to him, however, remained etched in Logan's memory banks forever. "Your father would be so proud of you," Aristide had said with a proud smile on his face, "as much as I am."
He was remotely aware that the funeral was over, but made no move to gather the others as they began to either interact with the Bann, each other or keep to themselves. He felt a presence beside him, but kept his thoughts on his dead grandfather.
"You are not with us," Morrigan's voice stated. All images of his grandfather vanished immediately, and Logan turned to face the witch.
"I was… thinking," Logan told her. Her hand reached out to brush a few loose strands of hair from his face as her eyes studied him.
"Who else occupies your thoughts?" asked Morrigan, a ghost of a smile visible on her face, "It'd best not be any other woman."
Logan smiled as he thought of Aristide again. "A man I respect," he said, not taking his eyes off Morrigan, "My grandfather. Aristide Amell."
"Ah," said Morrigan, "And what of your father, if I may ask? 'Tis merely my opinion, but shouldn't most men first admire their fathers and model themselves after them?"
"My father left my family before I could properly remember him," Logan sighed, "Mother never spoke of him. When she did, I didn't want to listen. So I don't know anything about him. I don't respect him, but I don't hate him either. I don't know what I feel about him, actually."
Morrigan's expression softened as her hands found his. "I am… sorry."
"Don't be," Logan said quietly, "He is an absent figure that doesn't have any effect on me. It doesn't matter."
"Then I suppose your grandfather must have been as admirable as you," Morrigan teased, squeezing his hand.
Logan chuckled. "Does that mean I've successfully earned your admiration, my lady?"
"You still have a long way to go before you earn the admiration of I, a Witch of the Wilds," Morrigan said, rolling her eyes, "I am not one to be easily swayed."
"That's not what I saw in bed this morning."
Much to Logan's amusement, Morrigan scowled and marched off. He wasn't sure if it was because she was offended or that she knew it was the truth. Either way, he now found a strange, new joy in teasing the beautiful temptress amidst their newfound intimacy.
"What an odd-looking couple you two make," Garrett said, suddenly appearing by his cousin's side, "But I knew it'd happen sooner or later. Looks like I won the bet—"
"Wait, what? You were betting on us?" Logan turned to face his cousin and narrowed his eyes. "Who else was in on it?"
Garrett smirked. "My sister and Alistair, though the latter was the only one that refused to take our side. He believed you had good judgment."
"Hawke, she calls me childish," Logan said, glancing at Morrigan's retreating figure, "But I'm sure I'll seem like a man to her once she gets to know you long enough."
"Ouch," Garrett grinned, "I love you too, Amell."
Logan ignored his cousin and slowly began rounding the rest up. It took him a while to find Sten, who had planted himself the furthest away from the sizeable gathering that had consisted of grateful villagers that had either come to thank the Warden and his companions for saving Redcliffe or wish them well on the quest that would save their arl, but he eventually managed to find the entire group and they returned to the middle of the courtyard once the coast was clear.
"To Denerim, then?" Sirius piped, sounding rather excited, "If we're going, my sister and I can probably open up the Cousland estate father bought a few years ago for us—"
"Slow down, Cousland," Garrett said, smirking at the excited young man, "We're going to find a cure for a dying arl, not attend a party."
Sirius fell silent, visibly disgruntled and embarrassed. His twin sister placed a slender hand on his shoulder and squeezed it in an act of comfort, her eyes encouraging.
"They seem inexperienced," Sten said gruffly.
Logan was about to protest when Leliana cut him to the chase. "That's not true, you didn't see how wo—how skilled Levy was with a dagger. And Sirius… perhaps he will one day surpass me in archery—"
"Levy—?" Garrett raised his eyebrows and glanced at Leliana. He smirked. "Which one of them's called Levy?"
Alexandra cleared her throat. "That's my middle name, Levana—"
"Well, isn't that adorable—"
"Shut up, Hawke," Alexandra and Leliana both said at the same time, shocking Garrett into silence. Logan hid his smile behind his hand as Sten said loudly, "That is not the point! I speak of their maturity. Who is to say they will not blindly charge in and bring us all to our doom? I will not tolerate bringing children along on this—"
"We're not—" Sirius started vehemently, but was held back by Alexandra, much to his dismay.
"You assume too much," Logan said, moving over to stand between the Qunari and the twins, "and I know you have a problem when it comes to accepting younger individuals, but I ask that you give them a chance. Trust me when I tell you that I trust the twins."
Once upon a time, Sten would have easily retorted and ignored the remainder of the conversation, but now he'd already seen how capable—however young—Logan could be. Not only was the mage smart and able to think on his feet like a rogue, he was also calm enough not to overlook the importance of strategy and better judgment that could turn to the tide of any battle. He had now come to respect Logan Amell and decided that, for this proof of capability, he would listen and see where that would take them.
Logan nodded as the Qunari held his silence and began to address the rest of the group as a whole.
"Denerim," he started, "For now, it's our only lead to the cure we seek. I'm sure Loghain has caught wind of the Grey Wardens' survival, so it probably won't be a walk in the park. Once we arrive, we'll split into two groups. One will be led by me, and the other by Garrett. I will take Alistair, Leliana and Morrigan to see Genitivi while the rest of you remain in the Cousland estate. After we extract information from Genitivi, we will decide on the party that will retrieve these ashes of Andraste."
"And the rest that don't?" Bethany asked.
"You'll be our backup," Logan asked, "The situation is still too uncertain for me or anyone else to decide that it's safe enough to split up and let another group recruit allies for the army against the darkspawn. Who knows what Loghain has up his sleeve?"
"He will do anything to secure the throne," Alistair said grimly, "Even if it meant killing Ferelden's last hopes against the Blight."
"And letting darkspawn engulf the entire land and perhaps all of Thedas if he decides to share," Garrett added, for good measure. Bethany nudged her brother in the ribs and shook her head.
Logan walked up to the Redcliffe guard and gestured for the gate to be lifted. The guard smiled at him—a silent vote of confidence—and hurriedly pulled the lever to make way.
As the new leg of their journey began, Logan couldn't help but feel apprehensive about the magical properties of the ashes. He could not put to rest the anxieties that plagued him as they left Redcliffe, and only ceased his thoughts when Morrigan caught up to him.
"I feel like we're just blindly following and eating into their superstitious beliefs," Logan said, before Morrigan even asked why he looked so troubled, "What if it's not worth the journey?"
"'Tis a chance everyone is most willing to take," Morrigan said, "Let us not waste it."
"I never saw you as the type who would put her faith in others—much less the Maker and his bride and a bunch of ashes," Logan said, a smile playing upon his lips.
Morrigan's eyes flickered toward the slowly setting sun. "If you will not fill that role, then I will have to suffice."
Logan glanced at Morrigan and let out a soft sigh. "Thank you," he said to her, and while she did not reply, her hand had slipped into his for a brief moment just so she could squeeze his hand, offering words that were not spoken aloud: I am with you, and I will always be. No matter what happens.
Perhaps, Logan thought with a wider, more confident smile, perhaps we have a fighting chance.